


Lessons

by corvidae9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Attempted Sexual Assault, Other, Violence, Voyeurism, nonconsensual sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-01
Updated: 2004-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29482941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9
Summary: Ron and Goyle make a strange connection, and things get ugly.
Kudos: 4





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Written for electricandroid in the snoopypez Ron ficathon. Trigger/content warning for attempted sexual assault, and use of a homophobic slur.

Goyle cracked his huge knuckles menacingly and advanced quietly upon the lone redhead, who was staring intently at a newly set chessboard, apparently blissfully unaware of anything amiss.

“Dammit, Greg, you know that’s just not scary anymore,” said Ron without looking up, as Goyle came within a few feet. “Marshmallow?” he asked cheerily, eyes alight with mischief, holding up a bowl full.

Heavy brow furrowed, Goyle growled, “It’s Goyle. And no, I don’t want any fucking marshmallows. Does it look like I fucking need your marshmallows, Weasel?”

“Meh; suit yourself,” answered Ron with a shrug. Seemingly focused on the marshmallows, he cast a surreptitious glance at Goyle settling into an armchair that suddenly seemed far too small. In any of the past six and one-half years at Hogwarts, Goyle’s attitude would have sent him flying to his feet, wand in hand. Now, he found that calmly baiting Goyle had become one of his favorite pastimes. Especially amusing at times since given the secret nature of their weekly rendezvous, he was relatively safe from the threat of physical violence.

Goyle adjusted his trousers as he sat and proceeded to lean menacingly forward over the chessboard. “What the hell are you waiting for Weasel?”

Ron had stopped offering Goyle the opportunity to move first, as he refused to be White under any circumstance. Funny how determined he was to appear so... so… Slytherin. Making a show of setting the bowl aside, dusting his hands off, and stretching slightly before reaching towards the board, Ron smirked. “Really Goyle, after all this time together, you might show a little patience. It has after all been… what, two, three, months?”

Sounding more like a pit viper than usual, Goyle hissed, “Shut your gob and move.”

Fighting to maintain his temper even, Ron managed with a smirk, “Good to see that all this NEWT-induced stress isn’t affecting your sunny personality, Greg-o.” He slid a pawn forward and sat back a little.

“I said **fucking shut your mouth**. My personality is bloody well none of your business and tonight is not the night to fuck around with me. Understand?” Goyle said in a frighteningly even tone as he picked up and slammed down a black pawn in one smooth motion.

Ron’s smirk wavered a bit, but he decided to push him just a little further as he contemplated his next move. “You know, if you find my company so objectionable, you can always go back to your dungeon and find someone else to play with. Oh, wait! That would give away the fact that you’ve got at least half a brain!” Another white pawn inched forward.

Regarding Ron with an expression that in some other dimension may have resembled a smile, Goyle said, “Yes, followed immediately by the revelation that you like to shag Malfoy in broom closets behind your Mudblood girlfriend’s back. Productive all around, wouldn’t you say?”

Smirk completely gone, Ron did indeed shut up. Again fighting the impulse to hex the lumbering idiot, he breathed deeply and shut his eyes for a brief moment. It had been a while since that threat had been voiced. He’d almost convinced himself that these games were entirely voluntary – a relatively harmless, highly entertaining intrigue. He had indeed been caught in a broom closet with Malfoy, but they had not been shagging. Malfoy had been feeding him information, something that could have meant a messy death for both Ron and Malfoy, had the truth been discovered. It was far safer to pretend that they’d been caught _inflagrante_ ; after all, it was what Malfoy was famous for.

Hermione, of course, knew exactly what had happened, and was far more amused than Ron by the prospect of the gossip leaking to the school. “Imagine that!” she’d said. “Draco Malfoy and I, sharing the same taste in men! Now that’s rich.” Markedly less amused by what Ron was willing to do to keep the incident quiet, she for once, was in favor of a well-placed memory charm.

When Ron had argued that it might be useful to have a contact within Slytherin, she’d gaped at him, open-mouthed, and managed to ask him who he was and what he had done with Ronald Weasley. The truth was that the more he found out about Voldemort’s supporters, the more he was curious to find out what kind of people they were. He’d known that they would never be friends even before the first meeting with Goyle, but he found that enjoyed the company of someone he didn’t live with for once, strange as their interactions were.

Tonight, though, Goyle seemed disturbed… somehow more dangerous than usual. Ron couldn’t pinpoint the exact reasons, but his gut instinct was screaming at him to run. Instead, he resolved to scale back the taunts and ponder his next move more carefully.

###

Goyle never thought of himself as Gregory anymore. Like his father before him, at whose knee he had learned to play wizard’s chess, he was a Goyle. He was expected to spend his school days as a minion to the reigning Slytherin prince, in training for bigger and better things at the side of the Dark Lord. For the most part above suspicion as a mindless enforcer, it was a good, relatively easy life.

He’d never liked that faggoty Malfoy brat. Their first meeting as children ended with Malfoy holding two lollipops, blaming Goyle for trying to steal them, and gloating as Goyle was taken away to be punished severely for it. His first serious lesson in minioning began that afternoon in his father’s dimly lit study.

He remembered his father calmly pulling his wand from his robes. “Gregory. Do you remember my telling you about the people that we must obey?

A six-year-old Goyle stood facing his father’s desk, trembling slightly. “Yes, Father.”

“And do you remember my telling you that young Master Malfoy is one of those people to you?” came the elder Goyle’s steely voice, as he walked around the perimeter of the room, coming to a stop behind his shivering son.

“Y-y-yes Father.”

His father’s voice took on an even more dangerous tone. “What exactly have I told you about them, then?”

Automatically, Goyle answered in a small voice, “N-n-never argue with the ones in power. Never show your true face. Never give in to your pride.”

“And?”

“Be prepared for… for…” Goyle faltered and stopped to bite his trembling lip.

Goyle senior brandished his wand and whispered, “ _CRUCIO_.”

The small, shaking boy crumpled to the ground with a high-pitched shriek that stopped almost as soon as it began.

Pocketing his wand, his father leaned closer to the whimpering pile of dark blue robes and said, “Pain, boy. Pain if you fail, which will be many times worse than the tiny taste you’ve been given today, and at the hands of those who care much less than I. You mind yourself around those high in the Dark Lord’s esteem, and remember your place.” He straightened and moved behind his desk once more. “Get up and go get yourself cleaned up – we are having visitors for tea this afternoon.”

The whimpering subsided slightly as the small boy raised himself onto his knees and gingerly stood. “Yes Sir.”

“Go on, boy. And remember this lesson well.”

###

“Goyle? Goyle? Do you plan to have a go anytime soon?” Ron asked impatiently. This nasty, brutish, supposedly brainless Slytherin oaf was the only person at Hogwarts these days that could actually give him decent competition (which he supposed was why Goyle had hatched this arrangement in the first place), but tonight he was obviously distracted. He’d made a series of half-hearted moves in between brooding silences, and was practically giving the game to Ron unless this was some new ploy Ron had yet to understand.

With a frown, Goyle looked up and for a moment, Ron thought he saw a glimmer of vulnerability; a state foreign to any he had seen of the Slytherin to date. Honestly rather frightening more than anything, Ron returned his concentration to the board.

Goyle mumbled something that sounded like “fucking weasel” under his breath and moved his bishop to an unwise position. Ron immediately sent his knight to capture it, sending bits of shattered marble flying everywhere. Like many wizards before him, the explosions and destruction inherent in wizard’s chess were what had drawn Ron to learn in the first place, but Goyle seemed to enjoy it more than he should. When Goyle’s chessmen began raining destruction, little trouser Goyle always seemed to salute. Not that Ron paid attention to that kind of thing; just that his obvious—enjoyment of the chessman carnage was a difficult thing not to notice.

A small skittering in the corner of the room caught Ron’s attention. He peered into the gloom but could make out no discernible shapes. Deciding that it was probably a bit of a shattered chessman still trying to make its way back to the battlefield, he went back to pondering the board.

###

Crabbe stood rigid in the corner of the room watching Weasley and Goyle eye each other warily over the chessboard, undetected thanks to a Disillusionment charm (he hoped). Unlike Goyle, Crabbe really was rather thick when it came to most things, but it would have been impossible for anyone to miss Goyle’s repeated, mysterious absences of the last few months. Today he’d disappeared the entire day, missing even Saturday morning Quidditch practice, only to show up in the common room disheveled just after sunset and badly in need of a drink. Come ten o’clock, however, he still rose from his chair, Banished the glass from which he’d been drinking firewhiskey, and exited the common room.

In Slytherin, concern for others is nearly always seen as either a sign of weakness or entirely faked for the purpose of getting ahead somehow. Crabbe convinced himself that he was ferreting out a possible threat, and carefully followed Goyle to the Room of Requirement.

The shock at realizing he was here to meet with The Weasel was only surpassed by the shock at realizing that neither was there to fight. He racked his brain trying to recall whether he’d known that Goyle played chess, but came up blank. He decided that this also must be a ploy of some kind, and settled in to wait, in case Goyle needed backup.

Redoubling his efforts to remain silent and unmoving, he leaned slightly against the wall and began counting the remaining gobstones in his pocket more carefully.

###

It was Goyle’s habit to scratch at his right forearm with his left hand whenever he was having a bad game, but tonight, Ron noticed that while he raised his left hand to do so, he invariably slammed it back down onto the armrest and clenched his hand instead. He studied Goyle’s furrowed brow, beads of sweat forming and just beginning to trickle down, seemingly unnoticed.

Ron was really beginning to think that tonight’s game had been a very bad idea; that every game with Goyle had been a Very Bad Idea; that Hermione had been right to fuss and fret; that he shouldn’t have shrugged off her concerns over spending a couple of hours locked in a secret room with a potential Death-Eater-in-training in the name of a little intrigue and an actual challenge when it came to chess. How had he been so oblivious to the obvious threat for so long? He stepped up his strategic aggression, beginning his end game, leaning his forearm on his knee to stop his leg from shaking.

###

He had resisted the impulse to scratch his arm all night. Goyle was well aware of the tendency, but only today realized how often he actually touched his arm in the very spot that now bore a hellish resemblance to that of his father.

This morning, Goyle had awoken to a masked figure clamping his mouth shut. A voice he recognized from their many such lessons over the years whispered, “Wake up boy. Today you truly begin your journey towards greatness.” His eyes went round with shock for only the briefest of moments before he nodded silently and rose to dress. The cold, early morning air of the dungeon raised gooseflesh across his arms and back as he pulled off his nightshirt. He reached for clothing and felt his father’s large arm descend over his head and across his chest; he gasped but was cut off by an unmistakable pull in the pit of his stomach, as he was Portkeyed to some unknown location.

###

Ron had been watching him stare through the chessboard for what had to have been at least five minutes. Goyle had finally reached over and started scratching his bicep halfway through the silence, and Ron had decided that it was probably time to cut this game short. He had intended to offer a draw, as ridiculous as it was, just to get out and back to the Tower, but his basic nature took over and what came out of his mouth was of course, neither soothing nor neutral.

“Hullo? Yes, I hate to intrude on your reverie, but I’d like to get back to Gryffindor Tower sometime before the term is over. What say we end the carnage now?”

As soon had Ron finished speaking, however, he realized there was blood seeping now through Goyle’s shirt under his scratching hand, making a curious pattern on the crisp white material and staining his fingernails. Again, honestly intending to say something, anything to end this meeting and make a quick exit, he rose slightly and said, “Goyle? Goyle—I… are you… erm… alright there?” His eyes widened as he recognized the bloody pattern and he began backing away. Fumbling for a second too long reaching for his wand, he did not back away near quickly enough. Before he knew what hit him, Goyle had sprung from his seat and sent him sprawling with a vicious backhand.

Ron found himself face to face with a very interesting stylized chess knight woven into design in the carpet. He shook his head to stave off unconsciousness, intent on making an effort to stand, and instead found that he was already rising rather painfully off of the ground, pulled along by Goyle’s massive handful of his vivid hair. He was thrown against the wall and pinned by what seemed to be the Hogwart’s Express.

Goyle ground himself against Ron’s backside, pressing his erection against Ron’s arse. Ron’s eyes went wide and for the hundredth time tonight, he cursed himself for ever believing that this had been a good idea. Cheek smashed against the cold stone, he tried reaching for his wand and found that he was wedged against the wall in such a way that he had very little range of motion at all. Goyle lowered his mouth to Ron’s ear and made a sound that could only be described as a growl, breath reeking of firewhiskey. Snarling, he half-whispered, “Fucking stupid Gryffindors, with your fucking idiotic optimism and your bloody fucking stupid conviction that nothing bad can ever happen to you if you run around doing good deeds and then run around like a fucking halfwit Hippogryff sniveling to anyone who will listen when it does.”

Mashing his forearm against Ron’s shoulder blades, Goyle used his now-free hand to latch on to the back of the hand-me-down jeans and yanked them down past Ron’s bony hips violently. “Here’s a little lesson for you, from one _house idiot_ to another: you are as much at the mercy of those in power as we _lowly Slytherins_. We just have the sense to know who those people are.”

All through Goyle’s rant, Ron had been in serious denial as to the depth of danger in which he found himself. The fine gauge fabric of Goyle’s trousers rubbing roughly against his bare arse cleared any remaining doubts Ron may have had about what would be happening, really happening, quite shortly if he did not find a way to extricate himself from beneath this half-ton of raging Junior Death Eater. Correction: full-fledged Death Eater, complete with Dark Mark.

###  
  
Crabbe stood riveted in the corner of the room as Goyle smacked the shit out of The Weasel. He’d had to clap a hand over his mouth to keep himself from whooping, “Brilliant!” until he saw exactly what Goyle was doing next. Half-disgusted, half-intrigued at first, he felt a familiar stir in his nether regions and realized just as The Weasel’s pants hit the ground that he was rather looking forward to seeing him get what he deserved. He lowered his hand inside of the sleeve of his robes to touch himself and sucked a breath in through his teeth to stifle a groan. Slowly, methodically, he began stroking himself, watching the scene unfold.

###

With a sudden burst of violence, Ron struggled madly to throw Goyle off and only succeeded in being pinned more thoroughly against the stone.

A cloud of whiskey-tinged breath seemed to envelop the side of his face not scraped raw and Goyle’s low voice assaulted him once again, “What’s the matter, Weasel? Rather be buggered by that Malfoy pouf in all his pathetic four-inch glory? Let me show you what a real Death Eater can do.”

Horrified to hear a tell-tale _zip_ , Ron shut his eyes and prayed to any available deity desperately for a plan of action, for a distraction, for a cataclysm of some kind, for a chasm to open in the earth and swallow him whole.

In the far corner of the room, a loud grunt, followed by a rather loud _thump_ pulled both boys’ attention away from the scene at hand. Ron took immediate advantage of the decreased pressure and let his legs go boneless, sliding successfully out from under Goyle’s grasp. As he hit the ground, he scrabbled away awkwardly, managing to pull his wand in the process. Turning it on Goyle, who began to advance upon him nearly foaming at the mouth, he hurled the first and most effective defensive hex he had ever been taught.

**“ _PETRIFICUS TOTALUS_ , you sick fuck!”**

Goyle was only partially petrified, but sufficiently immobilized to fall over cursing loudly. Feeling like he was thinking clearly for the first time tonight, Ron sprang up as quickly as he could, turning his attention to the figure in the corner of the room. Still mostly shrouded in darkness, whoever (or whatever) it was appeared to be recovering from a fall of its own. Before it could do so, Ron bellowed, “ _STUPEFY_!” and the figure crumpled to the ground again. He whirled on Goyle and was nearly amused to find that he’d been frozen from roughly the chest down, and was using his one partially-free arm to try and dig his wand from the completely-frozen pants pocket in which it was stored.

Without taking his eyes from the cursing and half-frozen Goyle, Ron bent gingerly and began pulling his pants back up, this time stopping briefly to half-unbutton them to avoid further unnecessary damage to his narrow hips.

Circling carefully around Goyle’s prone and bellowing figure, Ron approached him and let his cursed Gryffindor bravado take over one last time.

“Goyle old man, I take it you understand that this will be our last game. I want to leave you a little something to remember me by,” Ron said, wand still trained on Goyle, but now practically shaking with rage. He delivered a brutal kick to the exposed bit of Goyle’s ribcage, ignoring the sickening crunch and the grunt of pain that followed. He stood back and dropped another petrificus curse on him, and then a third for good measure.

Silence followed as the charms took effect, and almost immediately Ron doubled over, filling it with a miserable retching sound, vomiting what seemed like everything he’d ever eaten in his life. First thing tomorrow, he was owling Mundungus Fletcher for a black market pensive so that he could yank the memory of this night right from his mind; or failing that, paying a sixth-year to perform a memory charm. He didn’t give another thought to the figure in the corner as he ran for the door.

Wand in hand, he did not stop running until he slammed into an unseen barrier just outside the portrait hole, once again hitting the ground with a fantastic thud. Harry and Hermione appeared out of thin air, sprawled on the ground near him, tangled in the invisibility cloak.

Relief washed over Hermione’s face as she launched herself at Ron, throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh Merlin, Ron, I was sure something terrible had happened to you, It’s past one o’clock in the morning; I finally had to fetch Harry and the cloak and… and… just… you prat! Never do that again!”

Ron stiffly accepted the hug, not really wanting to be touched by anyone ever again at the moment. He heard Harry whispering _LUMOS_ , and soon there was a bright red light shining two inches from his face. “Christ Ron, what did you do, go sledding on your face?”

###

A cold draft in an odd place stirred Crabbe from his place on the thick carpet, and it took him a few minutes to remember exactly what had happened. He stood quickly, adjusting his pants and pulling his arm out from under his robes. Spotting Goyle on the ground, still frozen (and hopefully unconscious), he wasted no time in exiting the room and running full-tilt back to the dungeons. He had no compunction about leaving Goyle behind; if he was still missing at breakfast, Crabbe would leave Snape an anonymous message somewhere. Highly amused at the idea of Snape discovering and questioning Goyle, he grinned widely as he removed his clothing and settled into his bed, lulled to sleep by the creaking of Malfoy’s bed.  
  



End file.
